Requiem for San Andreas
by TheMainMac
Summary: Three Kindred find themselves plunged into the shadowy world of the state of San Andreas. Between the bleak corruption and darkness of mortal society and the political brutality of Kindred society, three vampires must learn to survive or perish in Los Santos and Blaine County.
1. Chapter 1: Hayden Morris

CHAPTER 1

SANDY SHORES AIRFIELD,

GRAND SENORA DESERT, BLAINE COUNTY

The Buckingham Vestra taxied out to the end of the runway, before turning to face the long stretch ahead. As the Vestra's twin engines began to power up, the black-clad figure watched from the side of the hangar. Bringing his flame of the zippo up to the end of the cigarette between his lips, Hayden inhaled – as best he could, considering his dead lungs – and the end of the cigarette began to glow orange.

His ravening inner demon, his Beast, snarled and fought to take control, but with the flame being so tiny Hayden was able to force it into submission. 'Back to your cage,' he thought, and the Beast ceased. Then, he turned and looks around at the expanse of desert which surrounded the airfield, the lights of Sandy Shores off in the distance. "Sandy Shores. Ever the shithole," he muttered aloud to nobody but himself.

Next came Hayden's iFruit, the latest in the line of smart phones, as he pulled it from his pocket and dialled the number for the Downtown Cab Company – which despite the name serviced every part of the State of San Andreas. Sure, it had began simply servicing Downtown Los Santos, but over the decades it had expanded until it eventually covered the entirety of the state. Up to his ear came the phone, then he ordered his cab. "There's one just around the corner, sir."

Sure enough, it instead took twenty minutes for one of the yellow-and-blue cabs to arrive. Pulling up nearby, the driver beeped the horn, signalling to Hayden. The brief trip to Sandy Shores followed, and when Hayden's ride pulled up outside the motel, he exited before heading to reception.

-x-

The next night Hayden awoke in the grimy bathtub of his hotel room. The bathroom being the only room no sunlight would enter, Hayden was glad he didn't find soft bedding a necessity to a good day's sleep. Climbing out of the tub, he dressed, then checked out at reception a short while later.

Hours passed, and Hayden found himself walking north along the Grand Senora Freeway, his right arm out, thumb raised toward the sky. For the past half hour he had been trying to hitch a ride, but unfortunately there had been no takers. Sighing, he began to lower his arm, convinced he was going to need to resort to more drastic measures.

His train of thought was interrupted by the sound of a horn blare, then the source of the horn pulled over to the roadside just ahead of him. As he reached the rust-red Canis, the paint worn from years of exposure to the elements, he addressed the driver. "You got a spare seat?"

"Sure. I could do with the company. Hop in," the driver replied. Hayden ignored the dishevelled look of the man, his filthy stained shirt and tattered jeans, the boots that appeared to have never seen a polish in their lives, the matted mullet which crowned the bald patch atop his head. And the stench... Hayden was rather glad he didn't need to breathe. "Where you heading to?"

"Paleto Bay. Thanks for picking me up, by the way. I was convinced it was going to hit sunrise before anybody pulled up," Hayden spoke.

"Nah, no worries. Paleto Bay, here we come." The Canis pulled back out onto the road, then accelerated up to speed. "So, what's your name, bud?"

"Hayden. Hayden Morris. Yours?"

"Trevor. Trevor Phillips."

The Canis turned off the freeway and toward the desert, Mount Chiliad looming in the distance.


	2. Chapter 2: Jezebelle Marcus

CHAPTER 2

OVER THE PACIFIC OCEAN

NEAR LOS SANTOS

The black Luxor cruised peacefully over the Pacific Ocean, its path veiling the terror and fear of the occupants within. The pilot sat behind the controls in the cockpit, frozen in terror, unable to bring himself to look at the dead copilot - slumped back in the seat, his chest torn open as if by a set of massive claws.

In the passenger cabin, three of the four occupants lay unmoving, the interior of the passenger jet painted with their blood. The fourth, a middle-aged blonde woman in a suit splattered with gore, huddled on the floor, trembling and whimpering, staring in abject terror at the monster which paced the cabin patiently.

Finally, the pilot's shaken voice entered the cabin. "W-w-we're one mile out, m-ma'am," he stammered. Jezebelle Marcus' pacing stopped, and she smiled before turning toward the cockpit.

"Good. I suppose you'll want to be given that mercy I promised you," Jezebelle said, and even though she did not raise his voice, the pilot heard it. He dared not infuriate the monster by daring to ask 'I beg your pardon?'

"Y-yes please, ma'am," the pilot said, terrified, and Jezebelle entered the cockpit. Looking out at the city of Los Santos in the distance, she put a clawed hand on the pilot's shoulder.

"No need for courtesy, mortal. You won't need it where you're going."

"B-b-but you promised to be merciful-"

"This is mercy, compared to what I could do to you," Jezebelle said, cutting the pilot off mid-sentence, then sank her fangs into the pilot's neck.

A minute later, the Luxor slammed into the waters off Vespucci Beach.

-x-

Police and media choppers circled the search vessels floating in the waters where the Luxor had crashed, while a crowd had gathered at the end of Del Perro Pier to watch the spectacle. Nearby, within the old arcade that had been long since opened to the public, Jezebelle slipped into her new set of clothes - a tank top, short shorts and a pair of flip-flops. Her old clothes, stained with blood, had been discarded.

The kindly donor of Jezebelle's new set of clothes, now stripped naked, sat in a corner. Jezebelle pulled the girl's car keys from her pocket and looked at them. "What's your car's plates?" The girl wasted no time giving up the details. "Good. Now you stay put, and I'll be back in a few minutes. And remember..." Jezebelle knelt down in front of the girl and put a hand on her cheek. "If you leave before I get back or try to signal for help, I will know, and I will find and gut you before leaving you to bleed to death."

-x-

The following night came, and with it the hunger. Jezebelle rose from her daysleep, her brief torpor, and climbed from her bed before heading out to the loungeroom. A brief flick through the channels revealed that Los Santos television was just as boring and drudgerous as it was throughout the rest of the country. Turning off the television, she turned and walked into the guest room.

The lights came on to reveal that the girl had not left the room - not would she have been able to even if she wanted. Her wrists and ankles fastened to the four corners of the bed, a sack covered her head. Walking over, she removed the sack before doing the same of the tape covering her mouth and eyes.

"Please! I'll do whatever you want! Please, just let me go!" the girl pleaded. Jezebelle, unconcerned with the petty mortal's fear, realised that she did not know the girl's name.

"Shhh, quiet now. What is your name?"

"Sandra."

"Good, Sandra. Now, I'm going to let you go, but only if you swear to me that you owe me your life and that you will pay that debt by serving me for the rest of your nights." Sandra shook her head vigorously, and Jezebelle smiled before bringing her wrist up to her mouth. A trickle of blood began to flow from where her fangs pierced the flesh of her wrist, then she put her wrist against Sandra's lips. Sandra tried to pull her head away, but one word from Jezebelle - "drink" - and the girl complied.

Sandra was, for the first few seconds, visibly disgusted... then the sweet nectar of Jezebelle's undead blood changed her mind. She began to drink it eagerly, the deathly power of the blood bestowing immortality upon the girl as Jezebelle willed it upon her.

Then, after that moment of bliss that the blood brought, Jezebelle pulled her wrist away as the bite closed. "You are now mine, Sandra."


	3. Chapter 3: Miranda Blunt

CHAPTER 3

ROCKFORD HILLS HOTEL

ROCKFORD HILLS, LOS SANTOS

Haunting melodies wafted from one of the luxury suites in the Rockford Hills Hotel. Within the suite, a young pale lady, tall and slender with wavy dark hair and a pair of deep green eyes, sits before the dresser mirror as she finishes applying her makeup. Then she rises, checking the time before picking up her Badger cell phone and dialling.

"Good evening, you have reached Maxine Walsh's number. You are speaking with her butler Gregory. How may I be of assistance?" an eloquently-spoken older gentleman's voice greets Miranda.

"This is Miranda Blunt," she replies, her British accent heavy. "I am calling to inform Lady Walsh that I shall be attending my meeting with her colleagues and herself at eleven PM. Please pass on my RSVP."

"Very good, ma'am. Do you need to confirm any details?"

"No, thankyou."

"Very good. Thankyou for your call."

"Good evening, Gregory." Miranda terminated the call, then slipped a blood-red rose behind her ear.

-x-

The metallic black Albany Roosevelt stood out in stark contrast with the rest of the traffic of Los Santos, vintage against modern. Miranda sat behind the wheel, lacking the luxury of a Ghoul to drive her to her meeting with the eldest members of the Invictus in Los Santos.

She wondered what to expect of the First Estate here. During her journey from Liberty City to Los Santos, she had stopped over in North Yankton, and found that the traditions and the culture of the First Estate was quite lacking. She found it quite disgusting that inexperienced Neonates were being given the same respect as Elders who had struggled through the Danse Macabre for centuries to build their power, and now they were calling the shots. As she sat at the lights, waiting for the signal to turn green, she pondered whether the Carthians finally had it right for once.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a belligerent voice screaming at her. "Get out of the fucking car!" In her periphery, she saw a man wearing a t-shirt and trousers, the heavy pistol in hand aimed at her head.

Many possibilities flashed through her head at that second. She could ensure that the last thing he saw was her eyes staring into his before he found that he no longer controlled his own body, time slowing to a torturous pace as his own hand brought the muzzle of the gun up to his temple. She could call on the blood, wait for him to shoot her in the head, and then flee in panic when he realised that the bullet had done nothing. She could climb out of the vehicle, then proceed to crush his skull with her bare hand, calling on the unholy strength of her Vigor. She could call out to every bird in the neighbourhood and then sit back and watch as they flocked to her aid, mutilating him as she calmly drove away.

But she chose the most logical path: she opened the door, stepped out, hands raised. Oh how she wished to subject him to any of the ideas which flooded her mind, but with the dozens of mortals now looking on she did not fancy being dragged before the Prince and executed for breaching the Masquerade. Her Beast thrashed and snarled, yearning to take control and tear out this mortal's throat, but she forced it to submit. "Take it easy, sir. Its just a car."

The carjacker wasted no time climbing into the Roosevelt and putting the foot down. Miranda watched it race through the intersection, barely missing the white Bravado Buffalo which had to brake hard to avoid the collision - and the African-American driver yelling "you see me driving here?"

Miranda turned and reached into her suit jacket pocket for her phone, so she could inform Alder Walsh she would be late arriving... before realising that the phone sat inside the car. A look of frustration crossed her face, then she looked around, searching for a payphone.

Moments later she found one. About to step inside to make her call, she heard the familiar sound of her car horn... and looked out to see her Roosevelt pulled up on the side of the road. Then the door opened and the African-American from inside the Bravado emerged. Miranda was surprised to see that he wore gang clothing - at least what she believed was attire commonly found worn by the gangs of South Los Santos - and then found herself confused as to why a gang member would go to the effort of retrieving her Roosevelt for her.

"Oh thank you, sir!" Miranda addressed him as she stepped away from the phone booth and walked toward him. "I didn't think I was going to see my car again."

"No worries. Just doing my good deed for the day," he replied.

"Well, it was a job well done." Miranda noted the scrapes up the right side of her car, and the dent in the front right fender, but she didn't question it. "Thank you again."

-x-

"You are late, Neonate. Unacceptable." The first words out of Alder Walsh's mouth, and Miranda already found herself unimpressed with the Councillor. How dare a lowly Daeva speak down to her, a Ventrue - Councillor or no Councillor, Elder or no Elder, no Daeva had the right to presume to speak to her in that manner.

"Oh, yes, I'm sorry. I should have rescheduled the carjacking to after this meeting," Miranda replied, her retort dripping with sarcasm, then curtseyed. "My apologies, my Lady."

She was glad to see Maxine's eyes narrow. "Sit." Miranda took her seat across from the Councillor. "Now, as I have already discussed your past performance within the First Estate of Liberty City - impeccable, as I would expect from any Kindred of Quality - I shall not question you on lineage or customs. Instead, I will simply inform you that the Prince of Los Santos has called a Court for seven nights from now. Do attend this gathering, otherwise you shall not be able to claim the protection of the Court whilst you remain unacknowledged."

"Oh, I wouldn't miss it for the world. A Court held by a Crone Prince, and a Savage at that, with the support of her Invictus subjects," Miranda said, now deliberately pushing the Alder's buttons. "I'll be there with bells on!"

"Don't push your luck," Alder Walsh said, her voice dripping with anger. "Your tone is unacceptable."

"Yes, apparently along with 'getting carjacked'. I'll keep it in mind," Miranda responded as she rose from the lounge. "Is there anything else?"

"Nothing. Good evening, Neonate," the Alder replied, a slight twitch in her left eye as she struggled to contain her Beast from tearing Miranda to pieces, but Miranda Polson was already halfway out the door.


End file.
